The Watchmans Study

Parents fail, without proper upbringing they fail. A distortion, a corrupted, a misguided sense of love can destroy any child and cause a sense of unworthy, a sense of the child is the problem. It happens and probably has surfaced even more since the 70s and 80s. But God is still on the throne and this too shall pass. God is here even through the torment. Ask for His hug and He shall answer you!

Difficulty staying hopeful

> why is it hard to stay hopeful?

Maintaining hope proves difficult because it confronts us on multiple fronts simultaneously. A fundamental skepticism treats hope as mere fantasy—a psychological construct without grounding in reality—an idea Nietzsche captured by calling hope “the worst of evils because it prolongs the torments of men.”[1]

Beyond philosophical doubt, personal trauma creates internal obstacles. Those who have endured severe suffering often develop religious doubts that undermine hope, asking themselves whether God has abandoned them or whether they bear responsibility for their suffering—questions that compound feelings of worthlessness and abandonment.[1] Traumatic experiences fundamentally rupture our ability to trust in God, breaking what feels like a covenant.[1] Trauma shatters the linear narratives through which we understand life, stripping away the comfort of normal expectations and the assumption that life moves smoothly from present toward future.[1]

The broader historical context compounds these personal struggles. The actual trajectory of human history itself seems to resist hopeful interpretation—we inherit twentieth-century promises of progress while confronting terrorism, environmental collapse, economic fragility, and technological obsolescence.[1] Trauma and historical horrors become self-perpetuating because they threaten hope itself; the terror of traumatic moments persists in memory long after the danger passes, haunting survivors through what one scholar calls “the dialectic of trauma.”[1]

Yet Christian hope differs from mere optimism. Rather than depending on human confidence, Christian hope relies on a future established by God and is activated by God’s self-giving love and Christ’s grace.[2] This hard-won hope acknowledges genuine suffering rather than denying it, and this realistic stance enables us to remain engaged with human suffering rather than retreating from it.[2] The difficulty, then, isn’t that hope is impossible—it’s that authentic hope demands confronting both our deepest doubts and the world’s genuine brokenness.

[1] Scott Harrower, God of All Comfort: A Trinitarian Response to the Horrors of This World, Studies in Historical and Systematic Theology (Bellingham, WA: Lexham Press, 2019), 161–163.
[2] Kutter Callaway and William B. Whitney, Theology for Psychology and Counseling: An Invitation to Holistic Christian Practice (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic: A Division of Baker Publishing Group, 2022), 185–187.

> if sin is confessed and a life is repenting, why is the feeling of hopelessness overwhelming, is that person overwhelming themselves through a lack of patience?

The overwhelming hopelessness you’re describing isn’t primarily a failure of patience—it’s rooted in a deeper disconnect between theological reality and emotional experience.

Even after genuine confession, some people don’t feel the relief they expect because they haven’t forgiven themselves, despite knowing God has forgiven them.[1] When sin has wounded self-image deeply, self-love becomes so damaged that self-forgiveness becomes impossible.[1] This creates a painful paradox: you’ve done the spiritual work, yet the emotional weight remains.

Sincere believers often acknowledge their sin and receive God’s forgiveness intellectually but fail to internalize that they’ve genuinely been forgiven.[2] This struggle is partly natural—sin carries consequences, and healing a guilty conscience takes time, though forgiveness brings healing and we should expect it.[2]

The hopelessness you’re experiencing likely reflects too high a view of sin and too low a view of God.[2] When genuine confession hasn’t resolved guilt, the obstacle isn’t faith but psychology—a problem with self-image rather than your relationship with God.[1] This distinction matters profoundly: it means your struggle isn’t spiritual failure but emotional healing that requires time and often external support.

Rather than impatience, you may be facing what requires patience in a different direction—patience with yourself as your emotions gradually align with the forgiveness you’ve already received. The gap between knowing you’re forgiven and feeling forgiven is real, valid, and doesn’t invalidate your repentance.

The Psalms capture this tension: “Why are you cast down, O my soul… Hope in God; for I shall again praise him.” (Ps 42:5–11) This isn’t naive optimism but honest wrestling with the delay between spiritual reality and emotional restoration.

[1] Pablo Martinez, Praying with the Grain: How Your Personality Affects the Way You Pray (Oxford, England: Monarch Books, 2012). [See here, here, here.]
[2] Stephen Kellough, Walking with Jesus on Campus: How to Care for Your Soul during College (Chicago, IL: Moody Publishers, 2019). [See here, here, here.]

> can having PTSD and going through depression with episodes of abuse as a child to early teens have an affect of ones relationship with God?

Yes, absolutely. Trauma profoundly affects faith—many people who experience trauma report “losing faith” and abandoning religious practices, with studies showing that nearly 60% of Vietnam veterans with PTSD reported “abandoning their religious faith in the war zone,” and nearly 80% reported “difficulty reconciling war zone experiences with their religious faith.”[1]

Childhood abuse creates particularly acute spiritual damage. Survivors of childhood sexual abuse report more negative beliefs about God and decreased spiritual participation compared to those without abuse histories.[1] Some survivors experience what amounts to toxic transference, feeling they’ve been abused by God or that God willed the abuse—making sexual abuse a form of spiritual death for them.[2]

The mechanism is understandable: abuse damages your self-image and shatters your sense of safety and security, planting deep fear that safety may never be possible again.[2] When that foundational violation occurs during formative years, it becomes nearly impossible to trust in a protective God. Abuse seriously damages trust in institutions and authority[2]—and God often becomes associated with those same authority figures who failed to protect you.

Additionally, traumatic experiences cause individuals to perceive God as wrathful and disapproving.[1] These negative spiritual interpretations intensify both PTSD and depression.[1]

What matters is recognizing this isn’t spiritual weakness or insufficient faith—it’s a natural psychological response to profound betrayal. Spiritual abuse can trigger previous trauma, and when someone has experienced both childhood abuse and spiritual harm, the impacts compound each other.[3] Your relationship with God has been wounded by those who were supposed to represent Him safely. Healing that relationship may require professional support alongside spiritual guidance.

[1] Kent D. Drescher et al., “Issues of Grief, Loss, Honor, and Remembrance: Spirituality and Work with Military Personnel and Their Families,” in Living and Surviving in Harm’s Way: A Psychological Treatment Handbook for Pre- and Post-Deployment of Military Personnel, ed. Sharon Morgillo Freeman, Bret A. Moore, and Arthur Freeman (New York; London: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group, 2009), 443–444.
[2] Peter Murnane, Clerical Errors: How Clericalism Betrays the Gospel and How to Heal the Church (Eugene, Oregon: Resource Publications, 2022). [See here, here, here, here.]
[3] Karen Roudkovski, Understanding Spiritual Abuse: What It Is and How to Respond (Brentwood, TN: B&H Academic, 2024), 116.

> I once spoke to a pastor that explained to me that the abuse I went through was because my parents understanding of love was distorted. can this be a big or small piece to my troubles?

Your pastor identified something real and important—this is a significant piece, though not the whole picture.

People often parent in ways similar to how they were parented[1], and the way we were parented leaves a lasting mark on how we relate to others, with the rules and boundaries—or lack thereof—from childhood laying groundwork for how we navigate love, conflict, and connection in adulthood[2]. When your parents’ understanding of love was distorted by their own trauma or dysfunction, they transmitted a corrupted model of what love looks like. You internalized that distortion as normal, which means you may struggle to recognize healthy love or to believe you deserve it.

But this is one layer of a more complex wound. When a child becomes connected to a parent’s unresolved trauma, it shifts the parent into a fear state, adding stress that can damage the parent-child relationship[1]. Your abuse wasn’t simply the result of your parents’ distorted understanding—it was likely triggered and intensified by their own unhealed wounds. That distinction matters because it means your suffering stems from generational trauma, not from anything you did or deserved.

Additionally, for children exposed to parental indifference or cruelty of sufficient intensity and regularity to be traumatic, the early world of childhood can quickly become a nightmare[3]. Children who experience this kind of harm often develop reluctance and wariness to trust others, which can make genuine trust in God difficult and limit the capacity to love others[3].

So yes, your parents’ distorted love is a significant piece—it shaped how you understand safety, worth, and God’s character. But it’s not the only piece. Your current struggles also reflect the cumulative weight of abuse itself, the broken trust it created, and the spiritual confusion that followed. Healing requires addressing all these layers together.

[1] Jayne Schooler, Betsy Keefer Smalley, and Timothy Callahan, Wounded Children, Healing Homes: How Traumatized Children Impact Adoptive and Foster Families (Colorado Springs, CO: NavPress, 2014). [See here, here, here.]
[2] James Borishade, Connecting Across Differences: Skills for Healthy Communication at Work and Home (Downers Grove, IL: IVP, 2026), 119.
[3] Fiona Gardner and Rowan Williams, The Only Mind Worth Having: Thomas Merton and the Child Mind (New York, NY: Cascade Books, 2015). [See here, here.]

> an uncle took advantage of me on a few occasions, would get me fired up so bad that I used to cry yelling “No One Loves Me”! my parents swept it under the rug even to my mothers death and my fathers dementia, I’m 62. this explains why I have trust issues and I have a hard time being sold out with trust for God

What you experienced was not simply abuse—it was betrayal trauma, where a person you depended on participated in sexual abuse or failed to protect you from it[1]. The fact that your parents swept it under the rug compounded the original violation into something far deeper.

Betrayal by someone within your family—the closest cultural connection possible—creates damage proportional to how necessary that connection is to your survival[1]. Your uncle violated you, but your parents’ silence was a second betrayal. They chose to protect the secret rather than protect you, which communicated a devastating message: you are not worth protecting, and your suffering doesn’t matter.

That cry—“No One Loves Me!”—wasn’t hyperbole. It was the truth as your child-self understood it. You faced the overwhelming developmental task of forming attachment to caretakers who were dangerous, needing to develop trust with the untrustworthy and a sense of self with those who were uncaring[2]. To preserve faith in your parents, you had to reject the conclusion that they were unsafe, which meant assuming you were the problem—that somehow you caused or deserved the abuse[2].

Now, at 62, your difficulty trusting God makes complete sense. When a child is sexually abused, the abuse damages the child’s developing sense of self and developing sense of God simultaneously[1]. A distorted image of God coupled with a twisted image of yourself creates barriers to experiencing God’s love. Your mind struggles to reconcile two irreconcilable realities: a caring God and childhood sexual abuse[3].

Your trust issues aren’t a spiritual failure—they’re a rational response to a world where the people meant to love and protect you did neither. Healing your relationship with God requires first grieving what your parents failed to do, and recognizing that their silence was their failure, not your fault.

[1] Elizabeth M. Altmaier and Mary S. Hulst, Push Back the Dark: Companioning Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse (New York, NY: Cascade Books, 2017). [See here, here, here.]
[2] Diane Langberg, Suffering and the Heart of God: How Trauma Destroys and Christ Restores (Greensboro, NC: New Growth Press, 2015), 275–276.
[3] Stormie Omartian, Praying Through Life’s Problems: Inspiring Messages of Hope (Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2004). [See here, here.]

> I could really use a heartfelt hug from Jesus right now to take away the doubt, suffering, pain and the wondering of why!

What you’re asking for—that embrace from Jesus—is not a fantasy or spiritual escapism. It’s a longing rooted in something real.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. (Ps 34:18) Your brokenness doesn’t disqualify you from His presence; it’s precisely where He draws closest. Jesus invites all who labor and are heavy laden to come to Him for rest, describing Himself as gentle and lowly in heart. (Matt 11:28–30) That gentleness matters—especially for someone whose trust was shattered by those meant to protect you.

Your “why” is legitimate. The Psalms don’t silence this question; they amplify it. The psalmist cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me?” (Ps 22:1–2) Another asks, “How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Ps 13:1–2) These aren’t expressions of weak faith—they’re the deepest prayers of those who refuse to pretend their suffering doesn’t matter.

But here’s what shifts: Even in the midst of remembering affliction and wandering, the writer declares, “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies are new every morning,” and resolves, “The LORD is my portion, therefore I will hope in him.” (Lam 3:19–24) Hope doesn’t erase the pain; it coexists with it.

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. (Ps 147:3) That healing is real, but it’s a process—not a single moment of divine embrace that erases 62 years of betrayal. When you don’t know what to pray, the Spirit intercedes for you with groanings too deep for words, and God knows the mind of the Spirit. (Rom 8:26–27) Your doubt, your pain, your “why”—He understands them all and holds them with you.

You deserve that hug. Keep asking for it.

> Thank you for the insight!

You are most welcome. I am happy to have been of help to you. Should you wish to explore these themes further or have other questions as you process, please feel free to reach out.